Morningside Cuesta Faithless is he that says farewell when the road darkens..

all he'd gotten from that— and he'd had to really wring out his brain for it— was the word pollen. he deflates. could you really blame someone for having allergies?
he cringes and folds his ears back at the half-cough, half-belch. he didn't previously know such sounds could be emitted by a living organism. the more you know. christ, he repeats, but he's secretly thankful for the fact that he'd at least turned his face away. no, einstein. i mean, you're scaring all the food away.
the stranger droops and whittaker is struck by the most defeated and pitiful expression he'd ever seen on an adult male. taken aback, he clears his throat. oh, uh, fish, what? now that was a stroke of shakespearian genius. fix? he scoffs, looking away wide-eyed in disbelief. if he had hands, he'd be burying his face in them. try uh, tickling the roof of your mouth with your tongue. he gestures vaguely, no doubt providing the stranger with the clearest blueprint to a solution ever concieved.